“Why?”
The Deputy Director smiled. “Why?” he shook his head, still smiling. “Hell, you’re an old hand, Ben. You spent a lot of years moving in and out of those Latin American countries, and you never ran out on an assignment. If we pulled out everybody who was afraid of Professor Donahue’s reports, we’d lose half our people in five or six countries. And where do you stop? Most of our operatives down there aren’t even Americans. Do you pull them out too? If we even hint that these papers exist, a lot of them will convict themselves by trying to run away.”
“Pull them out.”
“What?”
Porterfield said, “Pull them out. If the report turns up, you can send them all back, or most of them. But it’s been long enough now that we know we probably won’t get the papers in any of the easy ways.”
“We can’t do that, Ben. It’s the one thing we can’t do. It would take years to get back to the point we’ve already reached.”
Porterfield’s hand moved across the table and cradled the Deputy Director’s necktie, his thumb rubbing the smooth-textured silk as though he were considering buying it. He said quietly, “You and the Director are morons. In a way you’re a lot like the late Professor Donahue.”
“You’re way out of line, Porterfield,” said the Deputy Director. He sat limp in his chair, motionless and sweating.
Porterfield’s hard eyes held him. “You’ve been thinking about contingency plans and strategic objectives. Now I’d like you to think about what happens if these papers are sitting right now in the office of, say, the chief of internal security in Buenos Aires or Mexico City or Santiago. I’ve seen what happens when they roll up a network. Only this time it’ll be different. You’d better be rooting for them. The death squads and the secret police are usually pretty good because they get so much practice, but they always miss a few.”
The Deputy Director jumped to his feet, but Porterfield’s grip on the necktie tightened, and the Deputy Director jerked to a stop halfway up, giving an involuntary grunt, his eyes watering. Porterfield loosed his grip, and the Deputy Director straightened.
“Since you like the tie so much, I’ll have my tailor send you one just like it next week.”
“No, thanks. By then it might be bad luck.”
“READ THE SECTION on the Mexico project,” said Margaret. “We haven’t gotten through it yet, but that looks like it could be the best.”
Kepler leafed through the report, holding it far from his face and eyeing it warily. “Here. Tactics. That’s at least something I can read.”
It is essential to link the government in the minds of the populace with the privileged upper classes and to create a deep and inflexible hostility to both. At the same time, it is important to ensure that the government will be stimulated to react to each crisis by turning its power against the suspect lower classes. For Phase One of the program, the most useful vehicle is the Ministry of Health. For the past ten years the Ministry of Health has been engaged in a concerted effort to promote family hygiene in every way possible: vaccination, the draining of swampy areas, etc….
“This is boring,” Kepler said. He skipped a few pages and started to read again.
Particularly effective are those products which are vigorously promoted by the Ministry of Health and sold in modern chain stores wholly owned by members of the ruling upper classes. Typical examples are contaminated baby food and toxic tampons.
“What?” said Margaret.
“You heard right.”
“I wish I hadn’t.”
“It’s pretty sickening stuff, all right,” said Kepler. “But it just isn’t what we need.”
“What on earth do we need?”
Immelmann spoke. “This is just enough to get us killed. It gets published and what happens? They deny it and it sinks out of sight. What we need isn’t something that gives them a week of bad press. We’ve got to find something that’ll keep them awake at night in a cold sweat.”
“Isn’t an invasion of a friendly country enough for that?” Margaret asked.
“No,” said Kepler. “I’m sure they have plans like this for every country on earth, and Antarctica. This isn’t worth anything unless they’re actually doing it, and they’re not.”
Chinese Gordon said, “There’s some of what you’re looking for on page 435.”
Kepler turned some sheets and read. “‘The assistant to the Minister’s appointment secretary would be responsible for ensuring that the Minister’s answer was the appropriate one of the four she had memorized.’” He skipped onward. “‘The chief of police of the village of Caliente would…’ You’re right, Chinese. This is the stuff— agents in place who can be identified.”
CHINESE GORDON HEARD A SCRATCHING SOUND in the kitchen and turned his head to see Doctor Henry Metzger burying his food bowl with the throw rug, an elaborate and ostentatious performance that ended in his pretending to bury the rug too with an immense mound of imaginary material, interrupting his work occasionally to stare at Chinese Gordon.
“I’m busy, Doctor Henry. I’ll feed you later.”
Doctor Henry Metzger sauntered into the bedroom, rubbing his side against Margaret’s leg and then making a wide circuit along the wall. He passed behind the men and then sprang to the bed, padded across the sheets of paper and onto Margaret’s lap, where he walked in a tiny circle until his own tail brushed his face and he flopped down heavily.
It was then that they heard the sound downstairs. It was a hissing noise, a steady scrape as though someone were dragging something along the concrete floor. Then it seemed to be moving up the stairs, first only the hiss, but then a tapping began, something hitting on each step as it approached.
“It can’t be,” said Chinese Gordon.
At the sound of his voice the noise quickened, the staccato tap becoming a clatter.
“Too fast for a cop with a wooden leg,” said Kepler.
The dog’s big black muzzle appeared in the doorway. When he saw the gathering in the bedroom, his eyes seemed to flare with pleasure and his jaw hung open to let his tongue dangle out between the terrible white teeth. His breaths came in gruff, excited gasps, “Heh. Heh. Heh.” He seemed unconscious of his tail slapping the door as it wagged.
Kepler turned to Immelmann. “He must have heard you had some beefaloes.” His hand moved slowly to his right boot.
Doctor Henry Metzger lifted his head from Margaret’s lap a half inch and opened his eyes, then closed them again, purring.
“He was tied up outside with a double half hitch on a rope that would hold an aircraft carrier to a dock,” said Chinese Gordon.
The dog moved into the room, his long toenails scratching on the floor, a thick rope tied to his collar and stretching around the corner toward the stairway.
“You tied that thing up outside?” said Kepler. “What if he got hungry and ate a mailman or a kindergarten class or something? The least you could do is tie a decent knot.”
“Don’t be mad at him,” Margaret said. “He was just lonely for Doctor Henry Metzger and heard voices.”
“Looks like he chewed through the rope, Chinese,” Immelmann said.
“Yeah, and maybe you brought a monkey with you to untie it for him. Are you people deaf? He just dragged a four-inch ring bolt and probably half my garage wall up those stairs.”
“Just proves my point,” said Kepler. “No sane man leaves an animal like that outside, tied up or not.”
“No sane man has an animal like that,” Chinese Gordon snapped, “if there
“Awesome,” Immelmann agreed.
